Laws of the Blood 2: Partners

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events or locales is entirely coincidental.

LAWS OF THE BLOOD: PARTNERS

An
Ace
Book / published by arrangement with the author

All rights reserved.

Copyright ©
2000
by
Susan Sizemore

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ISBN:
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Electronic edition: MARCH, 2003

“
D
O YOU WANT
to live forever?”

“Not particularly.”

“Fool,” the Disciple said to the tourist and walked away, his arms wrapped tightly around his thin body. He shouldn’t have bothered stopping to talk to the man with the camera.

It was cold for the time of year, but the Disciple didn’t wear a coat. He hadn’t shaved that day or changed clothes. He looked homeless and half mad, but that was nothing new in Pioneer Square. And it was what the Prophet required of his missionary to the world, to go searching in this humble, helpless guise. The Disciple had a gift for seeing into the hearts of those chosen to understand the word. The tourist was ripe for saving; the Disciple could feel it. It hurt him to know that he’d lost a soul, but he was in too much of a hurry to turn back and work at persuading the stranger to come with him.

Tonight his task was to find a very special pair. Someone to act as a Vessel and channel for what was to come, and someone for the Angel to love. A shudder of pride and pleasure and hunger went through him as he continued his quest. Which would they be?

The place was thick with humanity tonight. They were crowded onto the benches beneath the trees, strolled arm in arm across the brick paving, spilled in and out of the shops and restaurants.

The Disciple didn’t like Pioneer Square, but that was where he’d been sent tonight. He didn’t like the way it smelled. He walked around and around the square, with the stenches changing every few feet, so strong they were almost solid. The reek of pizza spilled out from one building, beer from the next, sickeningly sweet candy from another. The aromas of hot yeast and grease and flour turned his stomach, and he had to stop and hold his breath for a while, but he kept doggedly on. He couldn’t understand how or why anyone could stand to taste anything that smelled as much of decay as cooked vegetables and meats. He was sent here often, but he never got used to it. People were drawn to the food like flies. Some of them were worth saving to serve the Angel; he had to always keep that in mind—and that he was happy to serve.

You went where the Prophet sent you or the Demon ate your brain. If you wanted to live forever, you had to do exactly what you were told. The Disciple was glad only the Demon was allowed to eat brains. The Disciple himself lived for the sweet taste of the transcendent flesh and blood of the Angel of Life. Serve the Angel, and you lived forever.

He stopped just inside the fancy ironwork bus shelter on one side of the square, barely protected from the sharp wind. He knew he should continue his quest, but
he had to think about the Angel for a while to give him strength.

In the end, and as he should have trusted it would happen, the ones he sought came to him. He did not have to find them. The Disciple hugged himself with joy when a couple pushed past him into the bus shelter. He turned to stare at them, and they stared back, surly at first, but with growing fascination. The man was tall, young, wiry, and looked to be as mean as a snake despite the conservative suit and haircut he wore. His eyes held no great intelligence, but they shone with cunning—and the Gift. This one would be the Vessel of Eternity. The girl was young and close to pretty, and that was all she needed to be.

The Disciple drifted closer to the couple. The man put his arm tightly around the girl’s shoulders, but his eyes never broke contact with the Disciple’s. The Disciple said to him, “Do you want to live forever?”

Eternal life was not something he could offer the girl.

The flamethrower worked better than anything else he’d found. Napalm would probably be the best, but Haven hadn’t been able to get his hands on any recently. The ATF had raided his primary sources of supplies in a sting operation a few weeks back. Haven had a fondness for alcohol, tobacco, and firearms but no love at all for any law enforcement agency that regulated anything on
local, state, or federal level. The forces of law and order didn’t love him, either, but they did want him. Or would have, if it wasn’t believed he’d been killed five years before.

“Reborn a little, but not killed,” he murmured into the coolness of the desert dusk. He and Santini were two hours late getting to the site they’d scouted out the previous night, but Haven didn’t think the upcoming fight would be much of a problem. Darkness was okay; a daylight raid might be noticed by the workers in the nearby copper mine. Even if his targets were stronger at night, they wouldn’t be expecting company. Haven didn’t care much if they were. He smiled a little. He was actually looking forward to a fight.

Beside him, Santini yawned, scratched, and said, “Reborn.” He fingered the gold cross he wore around his throat. “Right.”

Santini was one of the survivors, one of only four out of twenty, who had lived through the horror that had made Jebel Haven what he was today. Santini had been a drug-dealing, hard-drinking, whoring biker before Haven met him. He still was, but he never failed to show up to help out when Jebel Haven gave him a call. Sometimes Haven had to bail him out or break him out to get him to the firefight, but the biker’s expertise and commitment were worth the trouble. This time, though, Santini had been hanging around Baker’s office when they got the tip about the nest two days ago.

Tonight would be a simple cleanup operation. They’d gotten most of this nest already, and the survivors had run to the desert for cover.

Haven looked up at the starry sky, then shifted his gaze downward to the dark hole in the cliff side where the cave was located. Their hiding places were easy to find if you knew what to look for. Funny thing about that, you’d think they’d have more sense. That they’d at least hunt out new holes after the old ones were burned out again and again. They were stupid, true, most of ’em, but they could be tough. He’d run into a few that had given him plenty of trouble, but this wasn’t going to be one of those ugly fights.

Too bad; Haven lived for the rush of righteous vindication that came with the really spectacular kills. Those were getting few and far between. Part of him hoped that maybe what he and Santini and Baker did was having an effect on culling their numbers. A part of him suspected he was being played for a fool. Hope was not something he was comfortable with. The suspicious part of his nature had the upper hand most of the time.

What was he missing? There was a growing itch in the back of his mind that told him he was going about this all wrong, that it wasn’t as simple as it seemed.

He took a drag on his cigarette and tried to think only of what he and Santini needed to do in the next couple of hours. Had to go in, flame the nest, drive in a few stakes, chop off a few heads, get back to the Jeep and out, well away before dawn.

He tossed the cigarette to the ground and smashed out the butt with his heel. Checked his weapons and equipment again, glanced at Santini while the biker did the same. “Ready?”

“Yep.”

At first, Haven had enjoyed the hunting, but lately all the fun had gone out of his current occupation. Somebody was going to pay for messing him over soon. But sooner than that, he was going to get Baker to teach him how to use a computer. Maybe holes and caves weren’t the only places to look for the sons of bitches. Maybe he’d try the Internet. If Baker could use it how hard could it be?

Haven was almost bored when he said, “Let’s go kill some vampires.”

“
G
OT A JOB
for you.”

Char didn’t know whether to be pleased or worried when the man behind her in line whispered in her ear. She recognized his voice. Normally, she would have felt the approach of one of her own kind, but her senses could be forgiven for not picking up any scent of Istvan the
dhamphir
. Once she knew he was there, the trick was not shaking in her shoes. She didn’t know if Istvan was officially the chief of all the Enforcers, but he was certainly in charge. She supposed that gave him all the clout he needed to order her around. As far as she knew, no one had less seniority than she did. And seniority aside, Istvan had the biggest fangs and baddest attitude of all. He scared anybody in their right mind to death.

“Didn’t know you were in town.” She was quite pleased that her voice didn’t shake when she spoke.

“I’m not.”

And who was she to question that? When a fingertip touched the side of her neck, Char managed not to scream, though she shuddered as she squeaked, “What?”

“The Council has decided to kill Jebel Haven. You’re it.”